The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Jenna didn’t know where the picture had come from, or who had sent it, or why or how that person—if it was a person, for all she knew it could be an alien, or a ghost, or a demon, or... or... Jenna took a deep breath, and stared at the painting.

It was a canvas painting, oils that looked as good as if they had been painted months ago and not centuries ago. The medium-sized image had arrived on the post one morning—or was it today?—and Jenna had taken it in without much thought. It was a beautiful image with such a sexual undertones and Jenna blushed every time she looked at it. And it was so... So...

Jenna turned away from it.

Her face was hot from all the blood pooling in her cheeks, from the blushing, from the embarrassment she felt at liking the embarrassing painting. With that logic, she wondered why the hell she had placed it in the middle of her living room, for all to see. She thought she was punishing herself—yes, it had to be that; she was punishing herself for being so lax about her diet, and school, and work, and family, and... and...

Jenna took a deep breath and sat down in a couch that, on good days, swallowed you whole, and, on bad days, gave you several new friction burns. Luckily for Jenna, it was neither of those days.

So Jenna sat on the couch, trying her hardest not too look at the painting, but every time she didn’t look at the painting she would remember the painting was there and then look at something close to the painting but would accidentally stare at the painting and then look away, only to repeat it all again. Instead, Jenna sat on the couch, looking at the painting.

It was easier.

Jenna had to admit that the painting was very good, if not the best thing she had ever seen. But, then again, Jenna was so preoccupied with her studies, her garden, her family, her work, her studies, her friends, her social life, her non-existent sex life and... and... and many other things all the time that she didn’t really had time to know about art. For Jenna, if it was on a frame it was great; if it wasn’t on a frame, it was great. The painting was on a frame, and yet Jenna just felt that this one piece was simply beautiful, masterfully crafted. Someone had put their souls—Jenna thought that people had three souls—into it. It was above all.

Jenna blinked and an optical illusion made her see that the painting of the woman blinked. She stood, startled, and then her face got redder still from how silly she felt. Slowly, Jenna sat down, her eyes never leaving the painting.

Jenna yawned, and thought about how people’s jaws could dislocate if they yawned too wide, and then she thought about how snakes feed. Jenna placed her hand under her jaw and quickly snapped it shut. Her teeth rattled.

The painting stared back at Jenna, she thought, with its piercing black eyes and lustful stare. It was the stare that got Jenna, mostly... and the outfit, and the lightning, and the mood, and the whole painting itself. Who would send her such a thing? And why? Jenna didn’t know anyone who knew or cared about art, and didn’t know anyone who knew or cared about sending her what could easily be a priceless piece of art.

What if someone wanted her to have the painting as to hide the culprit of a theft? Could it be somebody stole the painting and wanted to frame... Jenna laughed, her face red from how silly she thought she was. Her mind tended to drift. Oh, how did it drift!

Jenna stood, walked to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, stared at its contents for two-point-four minutes before realising she had no idea why she walked into the kitchen to begin with. She shook her head and sat back down on the couch. Suddenly it was a good day and she sank fathoms upon fathoms into the living matter that was that couch, which could’ve been a Pokemon, if given the choice.

Jenna had no choice but to stare at the painting of the pastel woman in the pastel clothes that could be found in a stripper’s closet, or a lady’s wardrobe, or a congresswoman’s drawers, or a whore’s bag or... or...

Jenna blinked, feeling suddenly dizzy. She looked away from the painting, but felt as if someone were poking the small of her back with a screwdriver so her eyes quickly went back to the painting. She squirmed in her seat, and the poking subsided.

Why was the painting so interesting, after all? Jenna couldn’t seem to be able to pry her eyes away from it, get up and do something else (though that was probably the Muk-like couch using a level ten move on her), or simply think about anything else.

It was then that Jenna realised the pastel painted woman’s bosom. It was huge! Trapped in that pastel dress-like sci-fi uniform from a porn film, they didn’t seem big until one sat down in a Pokemon-like couch and really, really, really stared at them. And Jenna had been doing that for an hour, or a day or two. Her face got red, as well as her neck and shoulders. And immediately she looked down at her own bosom. It wasn’t so... noticeable. Curiously, for the first time in her life, Jenna felt sad because of this. How come she didn’t have an ample bosom boys would ogle and discreetly, but very obviously, try to touch and sort-of succeed and then make her all fake-angry at them even though she really enjoyed it? It didn’t seem fair.

Jenna stared at the picture some more, her eyes shifting from the painted woman’s bosom to her own and then back to the painting’s bosom, and back to hers, and then suddenly she was looking at the painted lady’s pastel legs. Jenna blinked. The painter had perfectly captured the allure and beauty of female legs, Jenna thought. And then she stammered in her mind at how risky that sounded in her mindscape.

The painted lady’s legs were partially hidden by a long skirt and petticoats, made of something shiny that was mostly transparent and raised in such a way that all of the painted lady’s legs showed and the very unladylike undergarment she was wearing. Very, very, very unladylike undergarments.

Had she ever worn something like that? Jenna looked down at her bosom, smiled faintly, then at her legs, and then she couldn’t look at her undergarments through her jeans so she didn’t look at them. But she wondered. Jenna had never worn unladylike undergarments. Why? Oh, right, she found them too embarrassing and sexy and just not for her to wear. But, perhaps, just perhaps, she could try one and not turn into a tomato.

Jenna thought it was a good idea to remove her shirt. She didn’t know why, or where the thought had come from; but she remembered a dream from years ago and didn’t think much of it and instead took off her shirt, not caring if the idea had been hers, or the painting’s, or the memory’s or if she was going insane. Jenna removed her shirt, looked down at her naked boobs, then at the painting’s boobs, and then at her own boobs, and then at the painting’s unladylike undergarments, and then at her jeans. She was starting to hate the jeans. But Jenna liked jeans, how could she hate them if she loved them?

Jenna looked at the painted lady, at her naked legs, and her unladylike undergarments, and then she looked at her boobs and her jeans. She hated jeans. The jeans must be destroyed. She declared war against all jeans. She ripped them off her body with a thunderous sound... in her head. Jenna wasn’t that strong and didn’t even try. She unbuttoned and unzipped and stepped out.

Jenna was feeling flushed, even a bit hot. But Jenna was always flushing red and always hot in the face so she ignored it.

Jenna really liked the painting, even if it was incredibly embarrassing. She looked at the painting’s boobs, then her own, then the painting’s legs and the unladylike undergarment and its tight, tight corset, and then at her own ladylike undergarments.

She worried too much.

Jenna looked at the whole painting, then at a stain on the wall, but there was a pain in the small of her back so she looked back at the painting. Jenna thought that the painted lady didn’t seem to worry that she looked like a... like a... like... Jenna couldn’t say the word. But she didn’t seem to mind that she looked like one! What if Jenna were not to mind about such things?

She looked down at her tits. She blushed, slightly. She called her bosom tits. She didn’t call anything tits, or boobs. But she was calling them that now. Jenna felt a prickle on the small of her back and turned back at the painting with its unladylike everything. She stared for a while, mouth-hanging open. She thought she was talking to herself, or the painting, but Jenna said nothing. She looked down at her huge, huge tits, massive melons of flesh.

When did they get so big? She wondered. But thinking about that made her head hurt so she looked back at the painting and at the lady’s huge, huge tits. They looked familiar. Jenna thought of a cousin, but that couldn’t be it. Her cousin had huge tits, not huge, huge tits. Jenna had huge, huge tits now. Why? Jenna looked down at her huge, huge, jiggling tits. Why were her hands playing with her nipples? Oh, that felt really good. It was like ice-cream, only better, and like a hot shower, only better. She let her hands play with her nipples.

Time passed.

Jenna remembered the painting.

Her nipples were red and sore but it still felt very good to play with them. Jenna looked at the painting. The lady had huge, huge, huge tits, and very nice legs, and unladylike undergarments, and a look of pure ecstasy. Jenna wondered if she herself had that look. She knew she was panting, and moaning. Oh, how embarrassing. She blushed, and felt ashamed, and then she felt aroused. Was that arousal? Strange. Jenna usually didn’t get aroused. But the lady on the painting was aroused, right? And her huge, huge tits were calling for attention. And Jenna was like the painted lady, right? With her huge, huge tits and her nice, nice legs, and her look of pure desire. Yes, she was. So she had to look like the painted lady.

She looked down at her tits and something occurred to her. What if her brains were in her tits? Could it be that was the reason her tits had gotten so huge? But her tits had always been huge, huge tits. Right? Jenna looked at the painting of the lady, and then at her unladylike undergarments, and giggled.

She blinked, and giggled again. She had just giggled. Jenna giggled? She giggled again. Seems like she did.

She liked how that sounded.

She giggled again.

She thought about birdcalls, and that made her think of why penises were called birds. She giggled and got red in the face and almost died of embarrassment would it not for the slap of arousal she felt when thinking about men’s birds. Why did they call them birds? Who knew. She liked to think about birds, and she giggled into realising she liked to think about men’s birds. She giggled again.

She looked down at her brains, no, her tits. They were tits, right? Not her brains? But what if her brains were in her tits? Wouldn’t that make more sense? Of course it would make more sense. Then she would know why they had always been huge, huge tits and why she liked to think about men’s birds between her huge, huge tits.

A slap of arousal shook her body.

Jenna needed men’s birds.

Jenna looked at the painting, stood, huge, huge tits bouncing up and down, legs wet and warm from something coming between her legs. She neared the painting of the unladylike lady and pressed her face against it. It smelled of old paint and sex.

She had to be like the unladylike lady, with her unladylike undergarments and look of pure, orgasmic, needy ecstasy. Jenna liked that idea, it made her horny. She liked being horny. Jenna liked giggling, being horny, thinking about men’s birds that were not really birds, and to be unladylike.

Jenna pressed her hands against her wet, wet fruit and her face against the painting.

Jenna blacked out.

When Jenna woke up she was not in her house. Jenna found herself walking- not, strutting, shaking her huge, huge tits and huge, huge ass with every step, away from the post office. She giggled, thinking what would be of whoever received the painting. She giggled again. She liked to giggle. Giggling made her horny. She liked being horny.

Jenna crossed the street and started looking for men’s birds. It wasn’t difficult, seeing how she was such an unladylike lady.

Seventeen Years ago...

The Artist was kneeling; dust covered her body, and she wished she were somewhere else. She pushed open a box, and all the rejected innovations of the 1920s hit her in the face with a slap of dust and cobwebs as if ashamed like the younger generation would not even knock before entering.

The Artist reeled and coughed, loudly and hard. She stood, hand against a wall of stone older than the realism movement. When she managed to breathe without coughing up one of her lungs, the Artist sat between boxes and statues and paintings and things she didn’t know had been something until the day she had seen them in wonder.

She was sorting out through a Legacy Vault; the silly name one of her predecessors had given the many, many places where the Artists throughout history had hidden and stored their work was a fitting one. She was now in one of the oldest surviving Legacy Vaults, a stone tower somewhere in Latvia. It had once been part of a grand castle, and once a fort; but it had grown in disuse over the centuries and people wondered how it was still standing if no one maintained it. They didn’t know about the Artists, and that was the way it had to be.

Tired of checking crumbling boxes, the Artist left that room and walked up some stairs until she found a room that actually had a light source. There was a cut in the stone to the far end, which had been covered by a thick panel of glass to avoid nature to do its trickery on the old paintings and thousands of metal statues and things that looked like statues. The Artist walked, brushing her hand against blankets of cloth covering the many paintings. She tugged at one blanket, but stopped herself before it fell.

The Artist reached into her pocket and pulled a pair of very dark welding goggles. She put them on and then pulled down the blanket. She was the Artist, and her knowledge was centuries of teachings by her previous counterparts, but even so, not everyone teaches everything they know. One of these paintings, perhaps, could be too much for the current Artist.

The painting was of a court lady, painted in a way that would’ve been a cause of uproar had the painting been seen by anyone before the modern Artist’s time and age. Even through a fog of blackness the Artist could feel herself affected by the brushstrokes and the hidden messages in the paint. Whichever Artist had painted this one; he or she had been a master of the medium. Most likely he or she had perfected the art of oils in his or her time.

Suddenly the Artist had an idea. It hit her like a sucker punch after a bottle of vodka. She took the painting down from the table it was resting on, and took it to the main room at the bottom of the tower. Here she had several items that she had to get out of the tower, either into other Legacy Vaults or out to the public, and things she liked and wanted. There she cleaned the painting, all the time feeling this urge to remove her clothes and do things that were not a good idea to do in a freezing tower in the middle of Latvia. Sometimes she had to close here eyes, count backwards from ten to cero, and imagine something else. It would work, slightly, and she would open her eyes feeling refreshed and energetic and very relaxed.

Once cleaned, the Artist wrapped it in packaging paper, and wrote a random address on it. She had to send it somewhere, she knew. She needed to send it to someone. It was important that she sent it away.

It was not until she returned to the insides of the tower that she realised she had no clothes on and her hand was stimulating her sex.

She cursed loudly, and then got to do some very impractical things to do in a freezing tower in the back of beyond of Latvia.

Four hundred and thirteen years ago...

“For the love of all that is holy, my Lady. Please, stop your moving.” A beard with a mouth intoned. “I cannot finish if you keep on thrashing about.”

There was a giggle in the room, and the Lady stood still.

“Very well, only a couple more strokes.” The bearded man, with his imposing arms and thick chest, was not one to immediately cry of artistic ability. He could paint, yes, and it paid handsomely, but what his hands were really aching to do was bend metal in impossible and motivating ways. He was a blacksmith and a sculptor. Not a painter, really. But that didn’t mean he could not paint.

“Done.” The bearded, massive artist said and stood. There was paint on his black beard and hair, and there was paint on his arms and thighs.

The Lady on the table giggled, and walked over to see. She almost tripped on her own skirts, seeing how dishevelled and open they were. Giggling louder, she composed herself as best as she could. It had been a daring thing to do. What if someone had seen her?

The Artist moved away and allowed the woman to stare at the painting. He grinned when he saw her face slacken, her hands move to open her dress the way he had painted it, and that she started to intone something in a language he didn’t understand.

“No, ’tis’ll be fun.” He said, his hands reaching for her body.